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<title>made of something different now by endangeredspecies</title>
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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/30068577">made of something different now</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/endangeredspecies/pseuds/endangeredspecies'>endangeredspecies</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Men's Hockey RPF</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Anders Lee Deserves Better, Angst, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Role Reversal</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-03-15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-03-15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-15 18:27:31</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Not Rated</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,085</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/30068577</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/endangeredspecies/pseuds/endangeredspecies</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Anders isn't getting any younger.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Mathew Barzal &amp; Anders Lee, Mathew Barzal/Anders Lee</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>14</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>made of something different now</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Set after *That* Devils game. Title from Snow Patrol's song of the same name.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The trainers' room is bright and cheerful, comfortingly sterile; it’s <em>nice</em>, objectively, all state of the art equipment and spotless walls. The table they deposit him onto is Isles-blue and smells like rubber.</p><p>Anders hates it.</p><p>He’s got one leg slung off the table and the other stretched out in front of him, ice on his knee and someone’s hands all over. It hurts, feels like his body is on fire, magma pulsing up from his leg in a nauseous wave. They’re talking, something about an X-ray, but he can’t focus around the pounding of his head. Gloved fingers dig into his knee and he hisses.</p><p>Something gets shoved into his hands- painkillers, he realizes belatedly- and the trainers are telling him what he needs to do. Crutches. Ice. Physical therapy, and then-</p><p>Surgery. Indefinite recovery time.</p><p>They’re still talking. He gets handed papers and a bottle of water. The trainers filter out, leaving Anders alone; he can’t breathe, can’t move.</p><p>He knows it’s Mat before he sees him from his voice, spewing curses as he slams the door and almost crashes into the table in his frantic beeline. He runs his hands up and down Anders’ arms like he’s a trainer, like he’ll find another broken piece. Anders lets him. It’ll do the kid some good to calm himself down.</p><p>“How are you?” He finally asks when he’s done playing doctor.</p><p>“Hurts,” Anders grunts. Mat cringes in sympathy.</p><p>“What did they say?” Mat is wild-eyed and panting. His hands shake as they graze over the ice pack. Anders shifts, pushes himself up to sit all the way up.</p><p>“Gonna be out for a while,” he croaks.</p><p>“Hey, scootch-” and Anders tries to move over as best he can. He apparently doesn’t hide his pained grimace well enough, because Mat’s face gets all crumbled, but he schools it back together. He’s learning fast, Anders thinks.</p><p>They always learn so fast.</p><p>“Sorry man.” Mat leans against the cushioned edge of the table. “Tito’ll take your place for a few, yeah? We’ll make it through while you watch Netflix or whatever.”</p><p>“No, like.” Anders swallows around the lump in his throat. “It’s my ACL.”</p><p>“Oh,” says Mat, so quiet Anders almost misses it.</p><p>“I need surgery, and PT. They don’t know how long for, but. Yeah. It’s gonna be a while.”</p><p>“That’s not-” Mat starts, looking at his hands. “That’s not <em>fair</em>.” If it were any other time Anders would laugh at him for whining like a baby, but it’s true. It’s <em>not</em> fair. None of this is.</p><p>The silence between them is heavy and long, and Anders watches as Mat gets all red in the face, hands flexing into fists at his sides. This is it, this is what it’s going to be, Mat blowing up and breaking down, just like the guys before him, just like Anders had five years ago. He waits for the storm, braces himself for it.</p><p>It doesn’t come, though: Mat does that <em>thing</em> again, rearranges his mouth into a hard line, takes a deep breath as the color drains from his cheeks. He leans over Anders to where he’s balanced the painkillers and the water bottle and pours two of the pills into his hand. They’re big and gray and ugly in Mat’s callused palm.</p><p>“C’mon, Leeber,” he says with a wry smile, holding one between the tips of his fingers. “Drink up.” Anders does, one after the other, lets Mat hold the bottle to his lips. He wants to say that it’s not his arms that are broken, that he can move just fine, but he doesn’t. When he’s done he leans back down and Mat follows, curling his long legs up so he can lay on his side without falling off. He looks ridiculous, some frat-boy-sleeping-in-a-twin-bed-with-his-homies type shit, and it hits Anders right where it shouldn’t. Mat’s nonchalant flexibility, the smell of antiseptic and stainless steel crowding him in, every sensation, everything around him is so colorful and shiny and <em>new</em>-</p><p>And here he is, all threadbare and torn up on the inside, out of place. It’s too much, and his breath hitches on a gasp.</p><p>Mat rests a hand on his shoulder. “You good?”</p><p>“I-” Anders tries to push up onto his elbows again, but he’s so tired, and he lets himself flop back down. He flushes and closes his eyes as Mat cards his stupid-soft hands through his hair.</p><p>“Still hurt?” Mat asks, and suddenly he’s reliving the injury all over again: it hits him hard and fast and he’s folding in on himself, a pained noise tearing its way from his throat. “Hey, whoa, okay, it’s okay,” Mat is rambling, but it’s<em> not</em> okay, and Anders feels hot tears of shame burning at the back of his eyes.</p><p>Anders isn’t getting any younger, no matter how hard he tries to pretend. He’s also not immortal, as much as people like to talk about him like he is. This could be it. Any mistake could be the last time he steps foot on ice; even without injury, he’ll be done and forgotten in five years, tops. Anders isn’t getting any younger.</p><p>But neither is Mat.</p><p>It’s Mat who’s easing him onto his back and rubbing away the tension in his shoulders, wiping the tears from his eyes. It’s Mat who’s somehow found a new bag of ice, replacing the lukewarm one on his knee. It’s <em>Mat</em> who’s asking <em>Anders</em> if he needs a ride, something else to drink, to use his phone. Anders shakes his head no to all three.</p><p>“They need me here for the- for the X-ray. You can go.” As Mat hops off the table and makes to leave, Anders clears his throat. Mat spins to face him. In the harsh lighting of the room, he looks somber. Sharp. “Take care of the boys for me,” Anders says, and for a second Mat looks like he’s going to cry- and then he grins, bouncing on his heels and giving Anders a mock salute.</p><p>“Aye-aye, captain,” he chirps, and then he’s out the way he came in, the door slamming behind him unceremoniously. They’ll be in to do the X-ray soon- as if on cue, his leg throbs again.</p><p>Anders turns his face into the table, sighing at the feeling of the cool plastic on his brow. There’s an indent where Mat’s bony elbow had been: he brushes his fingers over it, closes his eyes, lets the dull repetition lull him into uneasy sleep.</p>
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